


dance dance revelation

by galacticmint



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ambiguous Route, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 20:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20627174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galacticmint/pseuds/galacticmint
Summary: Caspar gets chosen as the class's rep for the white heron cup; five years later he puts on the outfit again, and turns out Linhardt's Into It.





	dance dance revelation

“Guess what!”

Linhardt sighed and pulled his gaze from his book with much effort. Caspar had just plopped into the chair next to him, and was leaning towards him with a wide and shining grin on his face. Linhardt’s eyes swept over him before answering, out of pure habit; he was smiling, so it had to be something good. He also didn’t have any scrapes or injuries, as far as Linhardt could see, so that ruled out Linhardt’s most obvious guess: that he’d been in a fight. Well, he might as well find out. Caspar would tell him whether he asked or not. 

“I can’t seem to find it within me to guess, so I suppose you’ll just have to tell me,” he said, giving his old friend a small smile, and getting a bounce of pure joy in return.

“The Professor picked me! I’m gonna be the dancer for our house. So we’re totally gonna win!” Caspar squeaked-- too loud for the library, but Linhardt was the only person in here, and trying to shush Caspar was too much trouble.

Ah yes, the White Heron Cup. Byleth had spoken to Linhardt about it-- he assumed they’d spoken to each of the students. Linhardt had plainly stated his disinterest, and off Byleth had went, to trick some other poor sucker into getting up on stage to do a goofy dance. It just turned out that poor sucker was Caspar.

“Congratulations,” he said, and maybe would have said more if Caspar hadn’t cut him off, words tumbling from his mouth like he just couldn’t keep them contained.

“So you’ve gotta practice with me! Professor’s gonna help too but, you know.” Caspar gave a little half shrug, one shoulder jumping up, and Linhardt nodded. He did know. As children the two of them had shared dancing lessons, stumbling into each other and stepping on each other’s toes. As much as Linhardt had no desire to do any dancing, back then or now, he understood the desire to carry through on tradition.

“Great!” Caspar cheered, sitting back a little in his chair. Oops. It seemed he’d taken Linhardt’s nod of understanding as one of agreement. Well, whatever.

Caspar chattered on about how Byleth had said he needed to work on his ‘charm’ and had invited him to tea for the purpose, and Linhardt rolled his eyes. Best of luck to Byleth if they thought they could change anything about Caspar’s atrocious manners. 

Linhardt never saw any real results from these tea parties, but between that and his begrudging participation in dancing practice, Caspar somehow won. He thought that would be the end of it, but then Caspar had turned up for their next mission wearing flappy layers and jingling jewelry, and when told to hold their ground for a moment would always do a goofy little dance to try to cheer Linhardt up and distract him from the battle. Annoyingly, it worked, and Linhardt found himself healing others from a distance twice as much. If anyone came close, Caspar still had his combat training and could fend them off with his axe.

It was a stupid solution, but it seemed to work. 

And then war broke out. And then Byleth disappeared.

The time for such goofy solutions seemed to be over-- Caspar re-donned his armor, Linhardt gritted his teeth, and five years passed in a blink of an eye. 

And then Byleth was back, and that meant they all had to make adjustments. 

For most of them, it was easy; a change in formation here, an alteration in strategy there. Fix your stance. Try to resolve bad habits. The Professor had raised their eyebrows at how many new Reason spells Linhardt had learned over the past five years, after his pleading to focus solely on Faith, but hadn’t told him to stop practicing them. Linhardt almost wished they’d had. It would have been a good excuse. 

He’d been too bothered by the brief exchange to pay too much attention when the Professor pulled Caspar into a meeting room. He remained in his spot on the bench in the hall, hands on his knees and gaze locked on the far stone wall, and tried not to think too hard about the time that had passed and how much had changed. 

Linhardt ran his fingers along the scar at the heel of his palm from where he’d thrown his hands up to protect himself from a sword blade a few months ago. A stupid impulse, and it’d hurt like hell until Dorothea had reached his side to close the wound, but tracing the line grounded him. Caspar had been so worried about him after that; he’d clearly blamed himself for letting the enemy soldier get so close, even though everyone insisted he couldn’t be everywhere at once. After that battle he’d scooped Linhardt up in a bear hug, squeezing him tight and lifting him off the ground (impressive, since he was still an inch or so shorter) while Linhardt batted his shoulder weakly and asked to be let down. 

Thinking of such things distracted him from more stressful thoughts regarding the war, so by the time the door opened he was breathing evenly again, and he tipped his chin up to greet the two of them.

The words died on his tongue. When Caspar had gone into the meeting room, he’d been wearing his long coat and full armor, and right now he was. Not.

It took Linhardt a moment to place where he’d seen his new attire before. That’s right. The White Heron Cup. Caspar’s victory, and his glee over it, and the goofy outfit he’d worn for a couple of battles before putting it away in favor of sturdier methods of protection.

But here he was wearing it again.

And it was definitely the same outfit, measured to fit his much shorter and much more slender self. The undershirt, which had previously been cut somewhat gracefully, now strained against his chest and upper arms. The shorts underneath the long skirt-like wrap, which previously had covered a respectable amount of his upper thighs, now… did not. Linhardt felt like his eyes were going to pop out of his head. 

Caspar was complaining and shifting his shoulders around. “I dunno! I really feel like this is gonna limit my movement. Can I just go without the shirt? I’ve seen the girls’ outfit, they don’t have to wear an undershirt.”

Byleth nodded consideringly. “Yes, I suppose that makes sense. Go ahead and remove it.” 

Linhardt heard a gurgling sort of noise as Caspar started trying to wiggle out of the too-small shirt, and realized it was coming from him.

Caspar glanced up at him, an expression of concern on his face. “You ok, bud?” 

Byleth shot him a look as well, unreadable as always. “Linhardt. Come help Caspar.” As usual, their voice allowed no argument, but Linhardt tried, whining, “Professorrrr,” as he levered himself to his feet as if by puppet strings and drifted to Caspar’s side.

He got his fingers under the hem of Caspar’s shirt and flushed as his fingertips met bare skin. This wasn’t fair. Couldn’t Byleth do it? Byleth had probably had to help him put it on in the first place-- but somehow that thought, rather than comforting Linhardt, made his mouth twist to the side, and he yanked Caspar’s shirt upwards. Caspar, prepared, had lifted his arms obediently, and together they were able to get the shirt off with only a bit of disentangling where the sash thing went over his shoulder. Linhardt handed the shirt to Byleth immediately, as though the fabric was burning his hands.

“There we go! I can totally swing my axe like this,” Caspar cheered, miming the motion. As a healer, Linhardt knew basic anatomy but he was still surprised and fascinated by how many muscles jumped to follow the action. He wrenched his gaze from Caspar’s chest and found Byleth watching him.

“Professor, can we talk?” he gritted out, and Byleth shrugged, and then gestured at the meeting room door. 

“We’ll catch up with you at dinner,” Byleth told Caspar, who nodded.

“I’ll be there!” He waved at both of them with a wide, beautiful grin. 

Linhardt made another choked noise and dragged Byleth into the classroom, slamming the door. 

“He cannot wear that,” he said, stabbing a finger towards the door and presumably Caspar.

Byleth arched their eyebrows. “He was able to get into it just fine. Are you worried about his ability to get out of it? I’m sure he’d accept your help.”

“That’s--” Linhart gasped, and then he pointed at Byleth, indignant. “You’re teasing me!” He was aware his tone wasn’t strictly respectful, but what they were doing wasn’t professional either! 

“You were much more efficient with his moral support five years ago,” Byleth said with a shrug, “I was surprised to find you’d abandoned the strategy. It seems like you need it more than ever-- and we need you, Linhardt, to be at the top of your game.”

“Wh-- this was all some strategy?” Even at the beginning? Even choosing Caspar to be the class representative? Linhardt was offended but… he couldn’t help but being a little impressed too.

Byleth shrugged. “He was so excited to do it, so I let him. Strategy is all about using the pieces that you have.”

Linhardt took a deep breath, pulling himself together. This wasn’t like him. He was just rattled by the sight of Caspar dressed so… shamelessly. “I… I see.” He was going to say more, but Byleth shook their head and spoke again.

“Although, I see I’ve miscalculated. If you freeze up like that on the battlefield, it’ll be a problem. I suppose I can get a new dancer’s garb made in his current size. I hadn’t expected to find him grown quite so much. He must be happy about it.”

Linhardt sighed, trying to calm himself. He’d never been a fan of small talk, but now he floundered towards it like a lifeline. “He’s still a little bit shorter than me, so not as happy as he could be, I suppose.” He wrinkled his nose; he didn’t understand why Caspar was so hung up about all that, as much as he’d liked to tease him about it in his youth.

“I’m sure he’d be happier about it if you told him how you felt about seeing him in the dancer’s outfit after all these years,” Byleth replied, their tone matter of fact.

“Professor,” Linhardt groaned. Had they always been like this? 

“I was surprised to find you hadn’t made your feelings clear, even after five years,” Byleth added, pointedly not making eye contact, and Linhardt groaned again. “How’s this? If you tell him, I’ll have him put the armor back on.” There was a pause. “Although I’ll let him keep the dancer gear for personal use, if you like.”

“I’m going to dinner,” Linhardt snapped, wrenching open the door. Byleth watched him go, eyebrows raised. Tension was pretty bad for the battlefield, so they hoped he’d go through with it. It would be a pain if he decided to wait another five years.

…

Linhardt didn’t go to dinner. He meant to, but when he thought about Caspar, the thought of his shining smile and unfortunate clothing situation kept him away. Instead, he headed straight to his room with the intention of napping, or reading, or doing anything really to distract himself from thinking about Caspar at all. 

It didn’t really work.

When someone knocked at his door he sprang to his feet and stalked to the door, wrenching it open, expecting to find Byleth there with some more unwelcome advice. Instead, it was Caspar. Linhardt had never felt such intense mixed feelings upon seeing his best friend. On one hand, he was glad it wasn’t Byleth, but on the other, Caspar was the last person he wanted to see right now.

“I thought you were meeting me for dinner,” Caspar said, pouting with his cheeks puffed up like a cranky squirrel. It was childish, but oddly cute. Linhardt resisted the urge to reach up and poke his cheeks. 

“I had other things to attend to,” Linhardt responded. Ideally, Caspar wouldn’t ask what, because it was a blatant lie, and Linhardt didn’t feel like inventing something.

“Whatever. I’m coming in,” Caspar announced, shouldering past him and into Linhardt’s messy room. As usual, the chair and desk were stacked high with books, so the only place to sit was on the bed. He flopped down on the edge, arms crossed, still pouting. And still wearing that outfit, of course. Linhardt didn’t know where to look; his crossed arms, bare but for various bangles and bracelets? His cute goofy face? Ugh, what a pain this was.

“The Professor says you don’t want me to dance for you.” Caspar said finally, and Linhardt realized this was really what he was grumpy about, not the dinner thing. Or maybe both in equal amounts.

Ughhhhhhhh. “That is not what I said,” Linhardt replied. “I said you shouldn’t wear that on a battlefield.” 

“Why not? I can move just fine in it!” 

That really, really wasn’t the problem. “Well, it doesn’t afford much protection. You’ll get hurt and I’ll be the one who has to patch you up.”

“I won’t get hurt. I’ll just dodge it.” Linhardt snorted, and Caspar scowled. “I will!”

Irritated now, Linhardt stepped closer, reaching down to touch Caspar’s shoulder. His finger poked at old scar tissue. “An axe, two years into the war. Damaged muscle, down to the bone.”

“Well, that’s--”

He touched another one, on Caspar’s bicep. “Arrow wound, went right through the tissue, I had to dig the arrowhead out of you.”

“No, you see--”

Emboldened by the sense of being right, dammit, Linhardt reached down and touched Caspar’s bare thigh on his one showing leg, fingers smoothing over another uneven scar. “Stab wound, sword through your leg, severed a tendon.”

“Linhardt,” Caspar whined, and Linhardt was brought to his senses with a start; Caspar was leaning back on the bed away from him as if trying to escape, his face red, and Linhardt was positioned over him, one hand propped on his shoulder, the other with his palm pressed to Caspar’s thigh. His hand jerked back like he’d been burned by the contact.

“It’s ‘cause I’m always protecting you,” Caspar argued back after a second, regaining himself, but Linhardt had lost interest in this particular fight, distracted by the situation they’d found themselves in. Caspar’s face was so red. He tried to remember if Caspar had been this flustered when he’d healed that stab wound, but he’d been so frantic at the time. Hm. Did that mean his chances were good?

“It’s distracting,” Linhardt told him after a second, sitting down next to Caspar, the bed creaking under them. 

“When I get hurt?” Caspar asked, brows furrowed.

“No. Well, yes. But I’m talking about your… attire.” His gaze swept from Caspar’s bare leg up over his chest and to his face. Still red. Interesting. “I fear I won’t be able to concentrate on our other allies with you dressed like this,” he added, testing the waters. Caspar’s eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. Oops, maybe Linhardt had gone too far.

“I-- you mean--” 

Well, there was no way out of it now. “Why not let the professor fit you with new clothing, that fits your… improved physique,” Linhardt suggested, and it was Caspar’s turn to make a weird gaspy noise as he nodded.

“Um! Yeah, okay.” He jumped to his feet, and Linhardt added,

“Ah, wait. Tomorrow, maybe? No need to waste a good thing. If you insist on arguing that you never get hurt, I’m sure there are a few more scars I can point out to you.”

He watched Caspar swallow, and then he sat down on the bed with him again. “Alright, fine,” Caspar said, face determined. “Show me.”

And so Linhardt did.


End file.
